Mary of Marion Isle. Генри Райдер Хаггард
eggs. Laurie can eat them.»
«I should like to see her do it,» replied Mrs. Josky darkly, «teaching the child to steal my lodger’s food, indeed. Look here, Mr. West, either you eat those eggs or they go straight into the dustbin, which you know would be a wicked waste. Come now,» she added in soothing tones as though she were addressing an invalid off his feed, «you know you want them with all your hard work, passing examinations and such, and you, as I believe, still growing.»
«I can’t and I won’t,» said Andrew. «I’ve had a gigantic lunch.»
«You can and you will,» replied Mrs. Josky with decision as she drew a chair to the table.
Then Andrew sat down and ate the eggs under her stern eye, also the buttered toast, for his appetite was excellent, while she poured out the tea which cost more per pound than she would have cared to tell him. No wonder he always declared there was no tea like Mrs. Josky’s.
«Where are you going to your next tea, Mr. West?» she inquired as she gathered up the plates.
«To Doctor Watson’s,» he answered, «whose assistant I shall be if I get through.»
«Oh! to Miss Watson’s, are you. I thought it was her writing on the letter. Well, there’s no denying that she’s a beautiful young woman, for I’ve seen her several times at church and treats and such like, of the sort that young gentlemen like to have tea with, not minding how it’s made, though a bit of a fool I should think, if they do call her the Whitechapel Rose.»
«Great Scot! what a name,» said Andrew, «though as a matter of fact she is named Rose. But why do you say she is a bit of a fool, Mrs. Josky?»
«Just because one woman knows another,» she replied with a mysterious shake of the head. «Also because God Almighty don’t give everything all at once. If a girl is as lovely as all that outside, you mark my words she ain’t got nothing inside. Look at me,» she added, thrusting forward her angular and kindly little face with the brown eyes in which humour twinkled, «I ain’t no beauty, am I? Whatever Josky, being after all a man, could see in me I never could guess – but I’m pretty good at cooking, and not so bad at a deal, either.»
«There’s something in the argument,» reflected Andrew. «I’ve seen it exemplified in very handsome men. But, as regards Miss Watson, I had formed rather a different opinion. Well, well, we shall see.»
«Yes, Mr. West, I dare say you will,» remarked Mrs. Josky with emphasis, and departed carrying the tray.
When she had gone Andrew retired to his bedroom and tidied up again. Looking at his hair he recognized that it was long and regretted that recently he had found no time to have it cut. Now it was too late. Suddenly he remembered an ancient pot of pomade, at least he thought it was pomade, which, amongst other débris removed from his mother’s house, stood in a cupboard in a corner. He found it. Inspection was not very satisfactory and it smelt. After all, was it pomade? At this stage in its career nothing short of analysis could tell. Still, in his anxiety to curb his rebellious locks he risked it, only to discover that it was decayed ointment which as a lad he had used upon his hands after they had been chafed by over-rowing on the Thames. That was when it was already on, and nothing short of prolonged shampooing would have removed it. Next, after reflection, he changed the red tie for a brown one that was somewhat less seedy, slipping over it a beautiful antique gem in an eighteenth-century setting that represented Venus rising from the sea, which had come to him from his father. About the velveteen coat he hesitated, but finally decided to leave it alone because he could not be bothered to hunt for another.
From all of which things it will be gathered that Andrew desired to look his best at the tea-party to which he was going, an impulse that had not overtaken him when departing to lunch with his grand relatives at Cavendish Square. Near the front door he met Mrs. Josky who eyed him with suspicion, remarked that he had on his Sunday tie, and sniffed.
«What’s the matter?» asked Andrew.
«Well, Sir,» she said, «I did think something might have gone wrong with those drains again, there was such a smell down that back yard, and now it seems to have come here too.»
«Oh! I know,» remarked Andrew guiltily. «I found some stuff that had gone bad and threw it away.»
«Indeed, then it’s a pity, Sir, that you threw it on to your hair first.»
After this Andrew fled, leaving Mrs. Josky still sniffing on the door- step.
Holding his hat in his hand, for he knew the cause of Mrs. Josky’s suspicions and wished to air his head, Andrew pursued his way through the devious streets of Whitechapel, till he came to a remote region in the neighbourhood of the river. Here in some bygone generation there had been houses of importance, occupied no doubt by prosperous tradesmen or merchants of the day. One of these, a red brick Georgian mansion of some pretensions, stood among a mass of mean dwellings that, as the value of land increased, had been built on what were once its extensive gardens, whereof nothing remained except a desolate little patch of ground in front of the house, upon which stood the foundation walls of a long-departed greenhouse. This dwelling, which was still known as Red Hall probably from its colour, was now the abode, private and professional, of Dr. Watson, a very eminent man in his way, but one whose career had been injured by his peculiarities and his open, often ill-timed, advocacy of extreme Socialistic views.
Mounting the dirty steps Andrew came to the front door, the massive dignity of which many successive layers of different coloured paints and graining could not conceal. Indeed, a splinter chipped off by the vagrant stone of some mischievous boy, showed that it was made of no humbler wood than old Honduras mahogany, while the tarnished brass knocker of twisted snakes also testified to the former standing of the house within.
As the bell was out of action he applied himself to this knocker for some time without result. At length the door was opened by a dilapidated, snuff- coloured little woman with watery eyes and hair that looked like faded tow, who appeared to be irritated at being summoned from the lower regions.
«Why couldn’t you go round by the surgery, Brother West» (everybody at Red Hall called each other Brother or Sister), she asked in a high and squeaky voice which suggested an effort to smother tears. «Here I am with the tea to get ready, to say nothing of the supper to cook, and the kettle boiling over at this very moment into the gas stove, making enough smell to poison one, and you come hammering, hammering at the front door which Sister Rose is too proud to open, till I don’t know the teapot from the saucers.»
«I’m sorry, Sister Angelica, but I thought the Doctor might be busy in the surgery.»
«Busy! Of course he’s busy. He’s always busy doing work for a pack of ragamuffins who never give him so much as a thank-you. What’s more, he’s got that Harley Street swell, the famous Somerville Black who looks after the Royalties and has three carriages and pairs, in there with him.»
«Somerville Black!» said Andrew with respect. «What’s he doing here? It’s scarcely his beat.»
«Oh! I don’t know. Some case the Doctor’s got hold of which interests him. A girl who’s the daughter of a fish-hawker and thinks that she’s three girls and acts as such.»
«Three girls!»
«Yes, Brother, or rather two girls, one herself and the other a farmer’s daughter, and a dead woman, I think it is Mary Queen of Scots, or Lady Jane Grey, or some one. When she’s herself she talks fish and swears as might be expected with her bringing up. When she’s the farmer’s daughter she talks cows and pigs and lectures on agriculture, although she’s never been out of Whitechapel or seen one of them alive; and when she’s the party that was going to be beheaded she takes on wonderfully, just like Shakespeare, the Doctor says.»
At this moment a dull explosion sounded from below.
«Heavens above! there’s that gas stove blowing up,» exclaimed Sister Angelica, and vanished away like a grey ghost, leaving Andrew to his own devices.
Chapter III
Rose
Andrew, who knew the house, went down the long centre passage to a certain door and